


i'll play god (today)

by smudgywords



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Behavior, Exorcisms, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Self-Hatred, Werewolf Turning, au where basically it gives stan powers, except stan HATES IT, so basicalllly.. the bath, so basically he is a werewolf after it bites him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 02:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20499152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgywords/pseuds/smudgywords
Summary: Stanley knew he wouldn’t be okay after It.It was the sort of dirt that soap couldn’t clean, that no matter how hard he tried to scrub the saliva off his jawline, it wouldn’t be pure again. Stanley was a single muddy footprint on a white rug, a mistake.Still, even with his waking panic and paranoia, the universe decided to hand him a new card to add to the pile.Lycanthropy.





	i'll play god (today)

**Author's Note:**

> please read warnings

Stanley knew he wouldn’t be okay after It. 

It was the sort of dirt that soap couldn’t clean, that no matter how hard he tried to scrub the saliva off his jawline, it wouldn’t be pure again. Stanley was a single muddy footprint on a white rug, a mistake. 

Still, even with his waking panic and paranoia, the universe decided to hand him a new card to add to the pile.

**Lycanthropy. **

Pennywise had taken something from him, something as untouched as the outermost edges of space, and spun it around, dislodging it and replacing it with something new. Something that kills you from the inside, a diseased moss stretching over every inch of Stan’s insides and infecting his mind. Coming out from the nostrils and eye sockets and mouth, growing thick, poisonous blossoms that drained his life and soul and pricked everyone who dared to love a man who had survived. 

A survivor. That’s all Stan was. Someone who had experienced, and now has to live with it. Humans aren’t built to live for that. But that’s why Stan lived. 

Despite how much he loathed it, all he thought was  _ pennywise, pennywise, pennywise _ because He was here. Wasn’t he? He was waiting and sulking and longing for just another taste of Stan’s ravaged flesh. Like a man on death row, Stan lived with the knowledge that he was going to die, if not by his own hand then by Him. 

Any day. 

_The date was September 5th_, and it was exactly 9:13 PM when the poison overtook his veins. 

He was taking a walk near the creek, throwing pebbles and listening to the hoots of owls. One might think that Pennywise made Stan fear the outside more, but it was exactly the opposite. Perhaps it came from the rather suicidal ideation Stan was taking on lately, but he really couldn’t bring himself to care. 

The pain struck him like a bullet to the chest, thunder booming in his muscles and those poisonous flowers jabbing into his every pore. He fell to the earth, a strangled gasp making its way out of Stan’s poor poisoned throat. It choked him, allowing him to suffocate on venom and pain. His eyes squeezed tightly shut and his hands tried to form fists. But they couldn’t

. 

Fire wracked through his bones as his nose started to elongate, and thick sprouts of brown honey fur grew in quickly. His turtleneck and jeans ripped easily, spread underneath him like a tarp. 

The pain raged furiously for a few seconds, before dropping just as quickly as it became. The world seemed hazy, like a forest fire was clouding his airways and inducing his mind. Stan couldn’t handle it, so he shut his eyes. 

And promptly woke up two full days later naked in someone’s home. Not his home, he quickly noted, even in his sleepy state. He bolted upright, the stench of rust hanging heavily in the air. 

Quickly, he searched the room for clothes. Anything to cover him up in case of emergency. His eyes quickly spotted a blue flannel and too-big jeans. He slipped them on, trying to ignore that it was someone else’s clothes. Then, he heard a gurgle from the room over. His mind immediately raced, hands grabbing a softball bat in the corner for protecting. As he left the bedroom and entered the room with the aforementioned noise, he saw it. Blood, and buckets of it. Slathered across the walls,  **paw prints, ** a torn intestine of some sort on the ground, an eyeball, disconnected from its socket like a diamond out of a ring. The rusty, brown stain across his hands seemed to laugh at him, telling him his paranoid brain was right. He did this. 

Stan stomached the feeling of throwing up, almost levitating over the gore on the floor and going into the kitchen. It looked cheesy, black and white tile and plastic wood tabletops. Black and white tiles with poisonous, poisonous buds. A small child lay face down on the floor, blood pouring out of somewhere unknown. She was still wearing a backpack, a princess one. Little blonde curl ringlets dyed sticky red. 

Stanley threw up into the wastebasket, emptying his gut. He threw up again once he noted his vomit was  **red. ** Salty, ocean tears flowed out of his eyes, mixing with the blood on his face and vomit in the basket. A guttural sob ripped its way through his villainous throat, filling the blood-stricken home with a sense of bitter sorrow that few could understand. So, he forced himself up. Because he killed these people. 

He walked more, not bothering turning the blondie over to see where her wounds were. He saw a tall man laying spread and dead across the couch, stomach ripped to shreds with oozing gore. Stan gagged, and walked towards the porch. A woman, brown hair unlike the father’s or daughter’s. Her face was stuck in a silent scream, red lipstick smeared on her chin. Her arm was gone, a little white bone stuck out of where it should be. 

There was nothing he could do about this now. Absolutely nothing, except  **run. **

So he did. He ran and ran despite the fact it was nearing midnight and he ran until he hit his house’s front porch and he slammed the door shut. His dad’s car wasn’t in the driveway. His parent’s must still be out on their business trip. He hovered in the doorway for a second, seeing nothing changed. No blood, no guts, no eyeballs lurking ominously on the floor. Stanley gulped, and he went to his bathroom upstairs. 

After puking out his guts once more, he jumped in the shower and scrubbed as hard as he could. His skin was red, and not because of the blood. He rubbed himself raw, the bubbles of ivory soap pouring over his guilt.

He needed to get clean. 

Cleanliness was gone, and now Him was all over every pore and every skin cell and his muscles twitched whenever the water dripped off him. Pink water went down the drain. Mud came off his feet. Salty tears dripped from his eyes. 

The shower didn’t last long enough, in Stan’s opinion.

He came back to school the next day, each of the losers fawning over  _ how pale he was  _ and  _ how blank he seemed.  _ Stan didn’t speak a word about his experience, just blaming it on a fever. He thought he was getting away with it, until Richie pulled him aside on the way home.

“Dude, what happened?” Richie whispered, hand on Stan’s shoulder that didn’t seem as much as a comforting gesture than a touch to reassure he was breathing and not as cold as a corpse. 

“Fever, I told you already,” Stan answered quickly, not liking the way Richie stared into his eyes, like he was waiting for the answer to appear. 

“No. I checked your house on the first day to drop off work. Went through the window an’ everything. You weren’t there.” Richie narrowed his eyes, keeping his palm iron on Stan’s shoulder. 

“I-” Stan chewed his lip. “I’m fine, Rich.” 

“Stop lying, I know you’re not fine. You were late to 2 classes today, that never happens. Even the teachers are concerned,” 

“It’s nothing. Just,” Stan clawed his arm nervously. “Family stuff.” He lied. 

“What’d they do, Stan?” Richie eyed him worriedly. It wasn’t a secret that the Uris’s didn’t have the best home life.

“Um, they-” Stan searched his mind for excuses. “Just alot of pressure, you know? I got pretty stressed out.” Simple enough. 

“Oh, Uris, you can’t let it get that way, you know that,” Richie shook his head sadly, “But I’m glad you took some time for yourself, okay?” 

Images of flashing livers and lungs popped through his mind, and he resisted the urge to claw his eyes out. 

“Okay. Bye, Rich.” Stan called out over his shoulder. 

_One month later, last week of October_. Halloween was soon approaching, and Stan feared what that meant. He had already shot up at least 3 inches, and his patience was always running on empty. 

He was sitting with the losers at the quarry, head against a sturdy oak tree and bird book in his lap. Ben and Richie were laughing over something stupid, and Eddie was trying to stack as many paper pieces on top of Bill’s head without him noticing. Stan wasn’t anxious right now. But he should’ve been. 

The familiar pain rippled through him, and Stan clutched his shirt roughly. The others seemed to notice the atmosphere change around Stan, because they quickly flicked their eyes over to him. 

“You alright, Stan?” Mike hummed, blinking. 

“No.” Stan grunted out, standing up abruptly. His book fell to the ground, dirt smearing across it’s white pages. He didn’t even notice it. His collarbones rattled in his chest, and his muscles screamed as they were rearranged. “I don’t- Fuck!,” 

“Hey, hey, no way, what’s goin’ on? You gonna barf or somethin’? Richie patted his back, and Stan seized away from the touch. “Holy shit, your skin is on fucking fire, should we call 911?”

“N-No, run, Richie, run!” Stan hissed out, trying to push Richie away from him. 

Stan fell to the ground, helpless to feel fur rip out of him and clothes tearing away. Stan was inhuman. 

The last thing he remembered was Beverly’s screams and the world fading around him. 

_He woke up two days later_, covered in blankets and the lovely smell of chamomile detergent. Bill’s detergent. 

He blinked, not seeing anyone around his bedside. He wasn’t naked anymore, wearing a long shirt of Mike’s and pajama pants from Bev. Stan looked at his hands. No blood. 

Slinking, he slipped out of bed and out the door of the bedroom. He heard anxious muttering coming from the kitchen, and as soon as he entered it stopped. 6 pairs of eyes watched him.

They all survived, thank fuck. 

Actually, there didn’t seem to be any wounds to begin with. Not a single speck of blood on anyone. 

“S-Stan?” Bill spoke gently, though his face betrayed his fear. 

“Bill.” Stan squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation. 

“You’re a werewolf,” Richie stated dumbly, eyes blinking quickly and much too slow at the same time. 

“I-” Stan choked, “I guess,” He ran a hand through his (not bloody) brown curls. 

“It’s from It,” Mike wondered aloud, tone suggesting a question. 

“I suppose so,” Stan curled in on himself, arms reaching around himself and tears suddenly slipping out of his eyes onto his cheeks. “Did I- Is anyone hurt?” 

Beverly slipped out of her seat and came over to the curly-haired boy, standing in the hallway and sobbing. She wrapped her freckled arms around him and pressed her face into his shoulder, hushing him. “Nobody’s hurt, Stan,” 

“But- Last time-” He felt on the verge of hyperventilating, nails clawing his arms as all he saw was  _ blood, intestines, eyeball.  _

“Last time?” Eddie whispered, eyes widened and face white. “Oh my god, the Roberts family-” 

Stan squeezed his eyes shut, shoving Beverly harshly away from him. She responded with a squeak, but she didn’t release her hold on his sleeve. Stanley choked, a vicious sob ripping it’s way out of his throat as all he could remember was  _ little blonde curls dyed with blood.  _ His nails continued to scratch at his wrists, drawing blood. With no warning, he darted, running out of the room and into the bathroom down the hall. 

Slamming the door shut, he locked it and immediately withdrew himself to the floor beside it. He continued to shred himself, despite the fact his veins thrummed rapidly under his paper-thin skin. For what he did, he didn’t deserve the privilege of feeling okay. 

_ Little blonde curls.  _

He vaguely heard knocking outside the door, but he could barely hear it underneath the echoing drum of his vile blood pounding in his ears like a band. They  _ had  _ to be lying. There was no possible way that he didn’t hurt anyone after what happened to that other family. 

He remembered the way he emptied his stomach’s contents after seeing his own mess the first time, the way it came up a cruel red, tasting of iron. Something that let him know he was not a better being than It himself. 

Shoving two fingers down his throat, he tried to trigger his gag reflex. Immediately, red chunks came through his throat and out of his mouth, causing Stan to bite back a sob as he realized that there was no iron aftertaste with it, just a sickly sweet, decaying fruit taste.  _ Right. Strawberries.  _

But no blood. No damage done. Not to anyone but himself. Good, that’s how it should be. 

Stan dry-heaved again over the toilet, blood leaking down his wrists and nothing but spit coming up his throat. After his stomach stopped lurching, he became more and more aware of hands on his back and hushed, gentle voices around him. After he realized who it was, he heaved again, throat aching and begging for water or tea. 

Strong hands gripped his wrists and pulled them away from each other, and he didn’t dare open his eyes to see who it was. Because he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t live through this storyline. He couldn’t, and he wouldn’t. 

“-tan, c’mon buddy, stand up. Let’s get him to the couch, I think he’s gonna pass out again,” 

“Shit, he’s bleeding,” 

Stan allowed himself to stand up, knees buckling and mouth incredibly dry. His eyes were moist, and it dripped underneath to his under eyes and cheekbones. Using the back of his hand, he smeared away the tears and let out a deep breath that he was unconsciously holding in. 

“Stan?” Richie whispered, breaking the silence in between them all. Them all turned out to actually just be Beverly and Richie. 

“I can’t do this. I can’t just- Be this,” Stan shuddered, unable to look Richie or Bev in the eyes. All he saw was  _ pity and fear.  _

“C’mon, Stan, let me make you some tea. I’ll add milk and everythin’,” Bev rubbed Stan’s shoulder blade as he grimaced at the touch. 

“I don’t deserve it.” 

“Yes you do. Now come on,” Bev gripped Stan by the wrist, accidentally smearing some of his blood onto her own palm. Stan went along calmly, but he couldn’t help but feel watched by the four pairs of eyes in the kitchen as he went to the living room, adjacent to it. He sank into the worn sofa and crossed his arms, too aware of whispering Eddie and Richie. 

Beverly came with tea, tissues, and a soft green blanket with flowers embroidered on it. Stan took the tea handle, sipping it even though it was piping hot. She sat across from him, watching his movements as if he was going to lunge out at any second. Stanley put the cup down, curling himself into a little ball on the couch. Eddie, Mike, Ben, and Bill came out of the kitchen, sitting in various ways around the table like a parent-teacher conference. 

“Stan. I might know how to help you,” Mike spoke, shifting uncomfortably where he was on the arm of a chair. “I read this book,” 

Stan quirked his eyebrow up. “Yeah?” 

“I don’t know- It’s gonna sound stupid, but they did this whole exorcism thing. Maybe we could try that?” 

“Okay, what book is this?” Ben asked. 

“A werewolf encyclopedia thing, I think it was called Lycanthropy. I read up as much as I could after...you know,” Mike explained, looking at the floor. Stan might’ve called him crazy, if he wasn’t a living werewolf. 

“What is the process then?” Stan hummed, taking another sip of the minty tea. Bill eyed him warily as he set the cup back down. 

“Well, uh, first, we’d need a cross and some holy water. And this herb called Osha, some kind of white flower. I could probably get some of those from the farm.” Mike tapped his chin while thinking. 

“Will it hurt?” Richie asked, hand unconsciously going to Stan’s shoulder. Stan tensed, hating how every person that touched him felt white-hot. 

“What exorcism have you heard of that doesn’t hurt?” Eddie shouted suddenly, standing up with his fists clenched at his sides. “What the hell are we gonna do? You guys are acting so calm about this, but, guys, Stan is a werewolf! A werewolf! He could change and kill us right now! And what if the exorcism KILLS him? I can’t do this- Oh my god, oh my god,” 

“Eddie, breathe, baby,” Richie shot up, wrapping his arms around his smaller boyfriend. Eddie hyperventilated against his chest. “Stan wouldn’t and didn’t kill us, remember?” 

Stan buried himself in the blanket, feeling sick to his stomach. What if he did? What if he died or worse, he killed everyone? 

“How- How did I look? When I was, you know,” Stan mumbled to Beverly. Richie eventually pulled Eddie from the room, taking him to the bathroom to calm down. Ben, Mike, and Bill all looked out of place, sitting on the floor and curled up on the arms of couches. 

“You were-” Beverly inhaled sharply, tensing. “Big. Just a big, walking, wolf. You were like two Richies stacked on each other. But when it happened, you didn’t- you didn’t hurt us, you just smelled us then laid down. You were probably only gone for, like, 20 minutes,” 

“God, two Richies? So I was a walking skyscraper, huh?” Stan tried to joke, but Beverly didn’t laugh. 

“Stan, I don’t think we should do the exorcism,” Beverly admitted, wringing her wrists nervously. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” 

Stan sighed. She wouldn’t get it. 

“It’ll hurt me more if I stay like this. You gotta trust me, Bev,” Stan stared at the floor, at the pink stain underneath the couch leg, inspecting the wood grain. “I can’t be like this.” 

“I know, but getting it out will hurt. A lot.” Beverly closed her eyes sadly, resting her head against Stan’s shoulder. Stan appreciated the gesture, because while Richie and Beverly didn’t appear (too) scared of Stan, the others certainly did, especially Eddie. 

“I know, Bev, I know,” Stan exhaled, before closing his eyes too. 

He woke up the next morning, surrounded by sleeping losers. He found that he wasn’t on the couch anymore, he was on Bill’s mattress next to a snoring Richie and Mike. He slowly shifted himself up, seeing that everyone somehow managed to fit on the mattress, dog-pile style. 

Beside Richie was Eddie, acting as the little spoon for Beverly. Bill was next to Mike, phone on top of his face, must have fallen asleep while on his phone. Ben slept next to Beverly on his side, narrowly avoiding falling off the bed. 

As he tried to get himself out of the cluster, he found that Richie was gripping his sweater sleeve. Richie’s hand dropped, causing him to groggily whine and wake up. 

“St-uhn?” Richie yawned, before pulling Stan closer to him. 

“Rich,” Stan chuckled, finally giving in and laying on his back next to his noirette friend. 

“Go back to sleep, dumb-dumb. Your big wolf body tuckered ya’ out,” Richie slurred, eyes still closed. Stan actually couldn’t tell if he was actually awake or not. 

“I slept for 2 days, Richie,” Stan sighed, before accepting his fate as a cuddle bug for Richie and closing his eyes. 

“Wha’ bout it?” Richie laughed dazily, one hand on Stan’s chest and the other behind his neck. 

“That’s 48 hours,” Stan turned onto his side, facing Richie. The noirette blinked open his eyes slowly, before shifting himself to accommodate Stan’s new position. His glasses were nowhere in sight, probably jumbled on the floor beside the bed. 

“You good, Stanny?” Richie traced his thumb over Stan’s cheek. Stan shivered at the touch. 

“Yeah, I’ve been better,” Stan laughed softly, “Thanks for not treating me like- like a monster, even though I am one. I’m surprised Eddie let himself sleep in the same bed as me,” 

Richie made a huffed noise, “Aw, Stan. Eds isn’t scared of you, he’s scared for you,” He blinked, before adding, “I am too,” 

“Don’t be,”

“Stan, what if you die?” Richie stared at Stan like he hung up the entire solar system in the sky. 

“I don’t know, I probably deserve it,” Stan laughed, but Richie didn’t. 

“No, you don’t. Whatever you did-when you were all-wolfy, that’s not your fault. You weren’t even there for it when it happened,” Richie left his palm cupping Stan’s cheek when he closed his eyes. “Now go to sleep, puppy,” 

“‘M not a puppy,” Stan breathily laughed, before closing his eyes and falling back asleep. 

“_Okay, you ready for this, Stan_?” Mike’s face was contorted in fear, and every word he spoke reflected that perfectly. 

It was time for it to happen, Stan decided. On this cold Fall night, standing at the quarry. He had his wrists tied together (per his request). He didn’t need to transform and kill anyone. Each member of the Loser’s Club had Osha flowers adorning them, tucked in shirts, behind ears, made into flower crowns. Mike’s farm surprisingly had an influx of them this year. Bill had managed to snaggle a bottle of holy water from the priest in town, and Beverly was using a little silver cross her mother had given him. Mike sat next to Stan, holding the dusty, worn book open to the right page. From what Stan could see, it was a proper exorcism done in the Latin language. 

Richie sat in front of Stan, placing his hand into his palm. “If it hurts, squeeze,” 

“It’s gonna hurt, obviously,” Stan chuckled. 

“Well, then squeeze,” Richie frowned sadly. 

“That’s what your mom said,” Stan breathed, smile nonexistent on his face as he desperately tried to inject some humor into the situation. 

“Stan, you ready now? You might wanna lay down,” Mike cleared his throat, knuckles clenched onto the book’s corners. Stan nodded, then laid down onto the grass. It felt odd, tickling his neck. That’s not to say he’d never laid down in grass before, but it felt so surreal at this moment because of what was coming next. 

“Okay, let’s start. You know what to do, right, Bill, Bev?” Mike looked at the redhead, holding the bottle of holy water in her lap. He then turned and looked to Bill, hands filled with little Osha petals and other flowers such as Rosemary and Marigolds. 

“Alright, lets go,” Mike began chanting Latin, and at first Stan felt nothing. Almost abnormally nothing. However, when the first flower petal touched his face, he recoiled in pain. A burning sensation, stinging and disinfecting. Paracetamols flooded his bloodstream, sliced every beast-like cell in him to shreds. 

Holy water dripped onto his cheek, and he choked. Boiling. Richie’s knuckles were turning white from holding onto Stan so hard. Candle wax over his pores, lit like a flame over him.

Mike continued, not stuttering once. Flowers branded him and holy water boiled him alive. It hurt a lot, but it was nothing compared to what the second paragraph would feel like. 

Osha felt more like cigarette burns killing his skin cells and ripping apart his muscles. Stanley screamed, what would be the first time in a while for him, surprisingly. The holy water splashed him as Mike recited more ancient verses, and Stan couldn’t help the sob that clawed its way out of his throat. His wrists were beginning to bleed from the rope tied around them, and he thrashed around in fervid pain. He couldn’t hear anything beyond every word that Mike uttered, but he felt the sorrow in the air.

Minutes felt like hours, and still more flower petals fell onto him, still more holy water splashed on his face, and more verses were said. Stan thought he was dying. He thought he would see God in heaven, that he would be denied from the gates due to beast blood. That he was too impure, too damaged for heaven’s clean marbled quartz and bleach white down feathers. 

Mike got to the last verse, and Stan’s nose started bleeding heavily. It gushed down his face like a waterfall, creating vile mud in the dirt below. 

When Mike finished, Stan couldn’t open his eyes, sharp, glass-like pain spread throughout his nervous system, pounding behind his eyes and piercing veins. However, he forced his eyes open like windows, and got himself to his feet so he could throw up in the bushes. It proved worthless anyway, because his knees buckled and he ended up on the ground beside the bushes, sickness being cleared from him.

Richie’s hands found his back, patting it and holding his hair away. Stan could hear the harsh, rugged breathing from everyone behind him, tension beginning to release them from its clutches. When Stan finally found himself not puking his guts up, he turned, wiped some of the blood off his upper lip and chin, and sat on the ground. 

The losers gathered around him, with Richie and Beverly making quick work of moving the flowers from Stan’s line of sight. Stan couldn’t keep his eyes open, he just kept them shut as his brain tried to comprehend what was happening to him. He could feel it, his beast blood draining and ripping through him like a hurricane through a small town. 

“Stan, you alright?” Ben asked, hand on his knee. Stan opened his eyes slowly, despite the irritation of light in his eyes. His blue hoodie was incredibly blood-stained, actually, blood was still gushing out of his nose as he looked. 

“Can someone get me a tissue or something?” Stan groaned, hand going to his temple where it pounded against his skull. 

“Here ya go,” Eddie handed a napkin over, and Stan immediately balled it up, not even making an attempt to wipe the blood off since more would just take its place. He pushed it against his nostrils, letting his blood seep through until it finally stopped. Little black spots dotted around his vision, and he felt his throat attempt to purge more and more of the sickness inside him. 

Practically pushing Eddie out of the way, he threw up again in the bushes. 

After the third time vomiting, he had to admit he felt like shit. Pain ached through him like he got hit by a truck going 60 in a 50 on the highway. His blood pounded inside his veins, drumming against the inside of his wrist where the rope still bound his two arms together. He didn’t make an attempt to verbalize his request, just held out his wrists in hopes they would understand. Bev immediately took out of her pocket knife, cutting through it and letting the bloodied rope fall to the floor. 

Stan took the form of a child, balling himself up with his head resting on his knees and arms around himself like a protective wall. Richie sat beside him, rubbing his shoulder in a rhythmic pattern. One by one, the losers settled around him. Mike threw the book into the forest, probably out of sheer hate for the pain it caused Stan. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know-” Mike cried, his body shaking beside Stan. Stan shook his head, pulling Mike flush close to him. 

“It worked, didn’t it?” Stan hushed, eyes dry. He didn’t regret it. Despite the pain it caused him, it protected him from others, and that's all that mattered.

“But-” 

“No buts, Mike, thank you, if you didn’t find that-” Stan shuddered, inhaling sharply at the thought. “I dunno what I’d do,” Except he did know what he’d do, and it didn’t require words to say it.

“I love you, Stanny,” Mike whispered into the crook of Stan’s neck. 

“I love you too, Mike.” Stan whispered back, then promptly fainted onto Mike’s back. 

_This was all before the events of 2019_, the phone call that changed it all. Stan was reading in the living room while Patty talked on the phone to somebody, when the obnoxious bell chime of his phone went off in his pocket. He picked it up, not recognizing the number. 

“Hello?” 

“Hello, Stanley Uris?” A gruff yet gentle voice came from the other end. 

“Yes, that’s me, may I ask who this is?” Stanley sighed, dog-earring the book for a later time. 

“Mike Hanlon, from Derry,” Mike whispered into the phone, and suddenly memories were slicing into his gut, branding him with osha petals, sinking their teeth into his jaw. 

“Mike,” Stan gasped silently, hand going to rub the old scars still present on him. Jagged, crooked, impure. 

“Stanley, It’s back,” Mike seemed to loathe the phone call as much as Stanley did. “Remember our oath?” 

Stanley did, he remembered the day in vivid detail suddenly, slicing their palms open with a shard of glass and joking about slitting his wrists. He remembered the horrified look on his friends’ faces, and the instant regret he should’ve felt, but didn’t. 

“Yes,” Stan shivered, holy water splashing around in his lungs and suffocating him. 

“So you’ll come back to Derry, so we can defeat It?” Mike said it very unsurely, like he was afraid of striking a nerve with Stan. 

“Yeah,” Stan lied. For not that much later that night, when his brain was ripped open with memories and his veins were screaming, he turned the nozzle on in the bath, and got in. 

Two bloody letters on the white tile wall.

It. 

**Author's Note:**

> The reason I really wanted to write this is because Stan's traits conflict so wildly with a werewolf. Like, he can't control it, it's messy, and primal. Stan is the exact opposite of all of those. I often see Richie getting written as a werewolf, but I thought it'd be cool to write it in Stan's POV. 
> 
> I might do one of these for Beverly as well, since she saw the deadlights, leave suggestions for a monster she could become. Also, please comment! I worked very hard on this and comments make my day :)


End file.
